A friend was talking with me about this site recently… about its very existence, for one, but also the various ebbs and flows and comings and goings that are recorded here.
“You’ve been able to preserve something, save something, from days out of years of your life,” he said. “That’s something, that’s important.”
After a brief pause he added, “My days go by so quickly, I look up and another week has passed, another year. So many memories and thoughts and conversations that are just… gone.”
Earlier this past month, I realized that I had been keeping this journal (in one form or another) for seven years… from a lonely February night in 2003 ’til now. Seven long years, that have hurtled by me at a breakneck pace. Terrifying.
This ongoing narrative has survived various technical mishaps to long spans of inactivity where my time was better used in other endeavors.
Even as my time has grow so woefully short, I have tried very hard to keep some connection here… to put down the occasional line or article which captures where I am and what I’m doing.
That said, I have done a rather poor job of it lately.
In reading back this evening over some of the many entries in my archives, I am delighted at what I have been able to capture over the years. Indeed, I can trace my own progression as a writer over the last seven years.
Whenever I start to feel a bit “in my cups” with my own “brilliance” or skill with stringing a few words together, I need only click back the years to read how I wrote in the first few years. Especially from 2003 to 2006. Ugh.
As I think about this project, and from where I have come, I am enamored with the power of memory… and memories for that matter.
There seems something so unspeakably incomprehensible in the powers, the failures, the inequalities of memory, than in any other of our intelligences. The memory is sometimes so retentive, so serviceable, so obedient; at others, so bewildered and so weak; and at others again, so tyrannic, so beyond control.
Surely, we are miraculous creatures in being His creation, but there is something altogether miraculous about this mysterious vaporous substance called memory. I submerged the depth of my thought into reconciling it with my reason, but it seems ever deeper still.
Quote o’ the day:
“The man who writes about himself and his own time is the only man who writes about all people and all time.”
– George Bernard Shaw (1856-1950)